


Well-Behaved Women Rarely Make History

by Audrey_Lynne



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Background Les Amis de l'ABC, Because valid reasons, Bisexuality, Canon Era, Canonical Character Death, Demisexual married couple, Demisexuality, Enjolras has a martyr complex, Enjolras pulls a Mulan, Eventual Enjolras/Grantaire, F/M, Female Enjolras, Feminist Themes, Ferrejolras - Freeform, It'll take time, Les Amis de l'ABC Shenanigans, M/M, Multi, Sexuality Crisis, Slow Build, Somebody Lives/Not Everyone Dies
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-14
Updated: 2014-07-14
Packaged: 2018-02-08 20:03:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,818
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1954440
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Audrey_Lynne/pseuds/Audrey_Lynne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Pour Notre Honneur, a Tous" - "For Our Honor, For All" </p><p>No one listens to a woman in 1829, even one with revolutionary ideas.  The country that produced Joan of Arc is surprisingly resistant to the concept of a woman speaking her mind.  So Combeferre has an idea, and one thing leads to another, and soon they have a rebellion on their hands.  There's a change coming, but there's also a price to be paid for it.</p><p>Or, "The one where Enjolras and Combeferre read passages from 'Rights of Man' to each other on their wedding night."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Well-Behaved Women Rarely Make History

**Author's Note:**

> I really wasn't going to post this until later, but...Bastille Day. How could I not?
> 
> Your patience is appreciated, as this won't be nearly as long as the brick itself, but there's a lot of plotty stuff going on. I have a spreadsheet. All pairings and plots and characters will be realized eventually. :)
> 
> I put all the applicable tags I could think of, as the story's currently arc'ed out, so no one will have to suffer any unpleasant surprises, but some of it is much further down the road. Hope you'll enjoy it enough to stay for the ride!
> 
> And, no, my other wip's are definitely not abandoned, but my muse refuses to work on anything but this at the moment.

* * *

 

_July 27, 1829_

 

It was not entirely unusual for Jean Combeferre to spend an evening at home listening to his wife ranting about Napoleon, the monarchy, and everything that was generally wrong with France. He rather enjoyed it – and encouraged her. It could hardly be called a debate, given that he agreed with nearly everything she was saying, but when either found logical holes in the other's argument, they pounced. Often mercilessly. Combeferre found it delightful. The marriage had, in actuality, been arranged when they were both infants, and as opposed as he was to the concept in general, it had rather worked out for them. As free as both a man and woman should be to make their own choices about marriage, Combeferre was certain he would have married his Louise anyway. He liked to hope she felt the same.

 

This evening was not so different from any other, in that they had stayed awake late into the night cheerfully ripping the Bourbon establishment – both policies and participants – to shreds. But there was a spark that had been lit on an only vaguely related issue. A spark that Combeferre wasn't entirely willing to let fade and die naturally. As his wife changed into her nightgown, he paused, watching her. She was beautiful, of course, but his mind wasn't focused on her body. “Darling,” he said carefully, deep in thought, “have you ever considered public speaking?”

 

Louise turned, favoring him briefly with a smile, but then she snorted. “Considered? Yes, often. Would it accomplish anything? Hardly.”

 

He laughed. “That barely sounds like you at all.” Louise believed in the people, vehemently. She loved her country and its citizens with a ferocity Combeferre admired greatly.

 

“Well, if you would recall what happened the last time I attempted to share my views in polite society.” Her words were casual, but there was a curl to her lip, a bitterness in her tone. “Apparently, my womanhood renders any opinion I might have invalid. I believe Monsieur Bordeaux's exact words were that you ought to keep me on a proper leash?”

 

Combeferre's lip curled as well. The Bordeaux family were neighbors, but not one he chose to associate with regularly. Especially after the last supper they had together. “Another good reason to decline any future invitations. Though, if it eases your mind at all, he cared little for my own rhetoric.”

 

“True,” she allowed, still scowling a bit, but she shrugged and began to turn down the bed. “Still, at least you have a chance to be heard.”

 

“Perhaps you should write my speeches,” he suggested with a smile. For the past several months, Combeferre had been trying to start a society of like-minded students, workers, anyone who would join. Some of the workers would listen, but shrug and call his ideas too lofty. “I have made contacts, but I lack your charisma. I cannot lead people to absolute conviction the way I know you could.”

 

“Oh, I find you quite charismatic.” Louise laughed, drawing closer to wrap her arms around his waist. “Your problem is your own intelligence. I find it extremely attractive, but you lean academically. Too many of our people are not as educated, due to circumstance, and...honestly, there are times they fail to understand you. Or, worse, they think you speak only to others who have had the same opportunities.”

 

He frowned. “Perhaps you could help me tone it down, speak to the people at their level.”

 

She grinned. “I can proof your speeches, love, but I can do nothing for when you speak spontaneously.”

 

“Which is why I need you at my side.” Combeferre kissed her forehead, holding her close. Louise, through her populist father, had been granted opportunities most women of her status had not. She had been privately educated, despite those who called it a waste. But she knew her fortune and embraced it, never losing touch with the larger picture. “We need to appeal to the workers. There are things we do not know, do not see, through the privileges our status has afforded us.”

 

“I do hate to remind you, but it is not only the rich who view women as ornamental.” She leaned into his embrace. “Many a working man will canonize his mother and give orders to his wife in the same breath. The working women of this city are strong, but largely ignored. They sew, they graft, they go home and tend to their families, and they go unnoticed for it.”

 

“Maybe you could reach them,” Combeferre suggested. “If the men will not listen, perhaps the women will? Their ideas can be just as infectious.”

 

Louise shook her head against his chest. “I do not understand other women, even less so than either of us might aspire to truly feel the problems of the working class. Too many, at least in our society, allow themselves to be swept up in petty class matters. The poor women do not trust the rich women and vice versa. It is the very reason we need to eliminate class barriers. We cannot, as women, expect to be accepted as equals if we spent a fair amount of time destroying each other. Even within classes, there are civil wars. Women who feel another is getting too 'good' for her station and they attack like a pack of dogs on a three-legged cat. I have seen it happen, to poor and wealthy alike. Every man – and woman – can be equal, but I have no idea how to get past the pettiness that seems to be expected in social relationships.”

 

Combeferre shook his head, running his fingers through her blonde curls. “For one who thinks so highly of the potential of France's citizens, I think you underestimate your fellow women. Your situation is unique, admittedly, for you were socialized differently. You have spent your time largely among men – I think it shifts your worldview. Believe me, there is also a large degree of pettiness among males. Pettiness is a base instinct each of us must overcome. It is a human concern, not one exclusively tied to one's gender.”

 

That made her smile. “Perhaps.” She nodded thoughtfully. “As you say, before my father died and my mother insisted I follow more proper feminine pursuits, I did follow a different path. And--” Her head turned at the sound of knocking on their front door. It was enthusiastic, persistent. “Now who could that be at this hour?”

 

Combeferre laughed. “Do you even need to ask?” Unless there was some emergency, the only person they knew who would show up unannounced in the middle of the night was Courfeyrac. And, indeed, it was him, but he had company.

 

“Sorry to drop in on you at such a time.” Courfeyrac grinned, tugging Jean Prouvaire – who was only two years younger, but the innocence he projected made the gap seem wider – behind him.

 

Louise rolled her eyes, going to hug him. “Who do you think you're fooling, Julien? You are not the least bit sorry.”

 

“No, I'm not,” he admitted, laughing. “But I brought Jehan, so can I be forgiven?”

 

She favored him with a fond smile. “Always. Now what brings you two here at such an hour?”

 

Courfeyrac's eyes widened with delight. “Word on the street is that there is a group of working men who will be holding a demonstration tomorrow, near noon. This may be our chance to get their support! Of course, should we gain enough members to form a proper society, it needs a name.”

 

Louise shrugged. “Well, if as you have said in the past, our primary goal is to educate those who have not been given the opportunity, any name should reflect that.”

 

“I've tried a few, but they all seem too cumbersome,” Combeferre admitted as they moved from the foyer to the living room. These impromptu meetings, held in the wee hours of the morning, were not uncommon with them. “I want to reach out to the under-served, the _abaiss_ _és_ _,_ if you will.”

 

Several bad puns later, _Les Amis de l'ABC_ was born.

 

* * *

 

 

_July 28, 1829_

 

There had been little sleep for any of them the night before, but it was of little concern. It was hardly uncommon, especially when the reason was one of their causes. Combeferre had been distracted for additional reasons, however. As much as he hated it, Louise was right about society's disinterest in women's opinions. There had been many great women in history, but that seemed largely ignored in the scheme of things. It was neither right nor fair, but it was reality. However, he'd had an idea, and there seemed to be no better time than the present to give it a try. They had little to lose and much to gain.

 

“What's this?” Louise asked, cocking her head to examine the clothes that had been laid out on their bed.

 

“An idea.” Combeferre shrugged. His younger brothers visited often, and had left clothing behind. With a bit of mixing and matching, he had put together an ensemble he thought might fit his wife. “Try it on.”

 

“Your brothers' clothes.” She seemed unimpressed, but then her face lit up as she appeared to understand. “You're not suggesting...?”

 

“I am,” he confirmed. “Try it on, first, and we can go from there. We'll need to bind your chest as well, if the ruse is to work, but we can save that for last.”

 

Louise laughed. “You really think this will work? That I might be able to disguise myself as a man, so people will listen?”

 

Combeferre shrugged. “There is no way of knowing until we try.” Her beauty couldn't be hidden, of course, but artists had been glorifying men with what they considered feminine features for centuries. That was the least of their concerns. He waited while she changed, assessing her. “It suits you.”

 

She smiled, taking a plain black ribbon to tie her hair back into a low ponytail. “I think I like it.”

 

“You look good in red.” Combeferre smiled, nodding as he looked her over again. She hadn't put on makeup for the day yet, which helped the assessment. She was still striking, but with her chest bound, she could pull it off. Besides, it was Combeferre's experience that people saw what they wanted to see. “You'll need a name.”

 

“Why not my father's?” Louise asked, smiling. “He was able to see past his station, to the plight of the people. If not for him, I might have suffered the same ignorance as the rest of the aristocracy. Like my mother.” It had never exactly been a secret that Louise and her mother were not on the best of terms, partly due to personality and largely due to politics. Her mother had remarried in the years since her father's death, and absorbed herself in her new husband's family, much to Louise's consternation.

 

“Perfect,” Combeferre agreed. “With the paranoia the majority of the upper class exhibits about protecting their sons, I doubt anyone will question never hearing of your 'brother' before. I know your father was never like that, but in this case what the public doesn't know may aid our cause.”

 

“I suppose it might be best to choose a different first name,” she allowed, her brow creasing in thought. “A small step of distancing from his legacy may prove beneficial.”

 

“Agreed.” One name sprang to mind immediately as Combeferre looked at his wife, remembering the passion and zeal she displayed in their private debates. “Gabriel? You strike me as an avenging angel, of sorts.”

 

She laughed. “I'm no angel, but...I do think it works. Gabriel it is, then.”

 

It was another hour before they were due at the demonstration, several more before the first time the crowd would hear her speak. But that moment, in their home, was the one Combeferre would always remember as when Louise-Marie Arabelle Combeferre officially became Gabriel Enjolras.

 

She'd always hated the pretentiousness of her given name anyhow.

 

 

 

 


	2. Great Things Start Small

The rally had been a success, all things considered. The police had been present, suspicious, and visible in the crowd, but as no actual anti-monarchy rhetoric had taken hold, they had seen fit to merely scowl at those assembled. The chants of the working men had been inspiring, the energy of the crowd palpable. And then a young man had stepped up to speak, one they'd never heard before. Some recognized a few of his associates, university students were were sympathetic to the cause. But, soon, it didn't matter who he was, he had everyone's attention.

 

As dusk began to fall and the crowd dispersed, Alain Feuilly was trying to track down the group of students. He liked what they had to say, especially the newcomer, Enjolras. True, with wealthy families, they could never know all the struggles of the working class. But that they were trying, it was a start. Surely they could use the perspective of one who was part of the very class they said they wanted to ally themselves with. And, frankly, Feuilly couldn't deny wanting access to their resources. He could never afford university, like them, but perhaps if he could borrow their books, he could further his own education, meager as it was.

 

He found them at the Cafe Musain, arguing over _La Charte_ and how well it was – or, rather, was not – being respected by Charles X and his ministers. Feuilly stood back several moments, content to listen, before he approached. “Excuse me. I don't mean to interrupt, but--”

 

“Oh! Hello!” One of the men cheerfully bounced forward and presented his hand, which Feuilly shook. “I recognize you. You were at the demonstration today!”

 

Feuilly was a bit surprised, honestly, but pleased. He hadn't given any speeches, preferring to blend in with the crowd. “Ah. Yes. I was there.”

 

“I see everyone.” The man laughed. “I've made it my goal to meet every person in Paris. A bit ambitious, perhaps, but fun to try.” He grinned. “My friends call me Courfeyrac. And you?”

 

“Feuilly.” The enthusiasm seemed genuine, and while Feuilly usually needed time to feel out a person, he found he liked Courfeyrac instantly. “I work in Monsieur Beauchene's factory.”

 

Courfeyrac nodded. “Ah, yes, near Saint-Antoine? I know the man. Unfortunately. Bit of a tyrant, don't you think?”

 

He was, but Feuilly only smiled in response. “I would not speak ill of my employer in public.”

 

“Oh, right. Of course not. Smart man.” Courfeyrac moved back to the table, patting an empty spot and pulling up a chair from nearby. “Come, sit. Talk with us. I'll introduce you to my friends.” Indeed, they were watching curiously, as if waiting for exactly that.

 

Feuilly quickly found himself not only included in the discussion, but asked his opinion. He was hardly used to much of anyone caring what he thought, orphans who grew to join the working class – if they lived – were two a penny. However, these men seemed to genuinely value what he had to say, and it was refreshing. As a student of human nature, Feuilly had little trouble discerning their individual styles. Courfeyrac was spirited, enthusiastic, and probably a bit impulsive – which was balanced by Combeferre's more calm, calculated nature. Prouvaire was quiet, but highly intelligent. Enjolras was the hardest to work out. Clearly, he was driven, passionate, but he seemed preoccupied with something Feuilly was unable to pin down. Eventually, Feuilly stopped trying to work it out, conceding to himself it was probably personal – and, in that case, none of his business.

 

The five of them talked into the night, standing under the street lanterns after the Musain's owner shooed them away so the cafe could close. As they finally parted ways, Enjolras held out a hand to Feuilly. “I do hope to see you again. We meet here most nights. If you are not working, I hope you would join us?”

 

Feuilly grinned. He had only really known these students a few hours, but he felt welcome among them. He wasn't so naïve to think the class barriers would never assert themselves, but it was rare for him to feel wanted among any group in particular. He believed fiercely in the people at large, the people of France, but life had taught him much about dealing with individuals. “I look forward to it.”

 

“Good!” Courfeyrac extended a hand as well, shaking in farewell. “Welcome to Les Amis, then.”

 

“Les Amis?” Feuilly echoed.

 

“Les Amis de l'ABC,” Prouvaire explained, smiling shyly. “It's what we call ourselves. A society, of sorts. For...education.” But the sparkle in his eyes and the topics of the evening's discussion let Feuilly know exactly what the ultimate purpose was – and he could hardly disapprove.

 

As much as he tried to avoid it, Feuilly couldn't help but laugh at the pun. He had a feeling he was going to like this new society quite a lot.

 

* * *

 

_August 9, 1829_

 

Les Amis was going to be a small but mighty force for good in Paris; Combeferre could tell, even this early on. Nearly two weeks in, they had already gained two members. Feuilly, the factory worker they met their first day out, was an enthusiastic voice. Not long behind him had been Michel Bahorel, a law student determined to keep as much distance between himself and the law as possible. Bahorel was a brawler, which kept him well in touch with the everyman, and he and Feuilly had taken an instant liking to one another.

 

Much to Combeferre's amusement, his wife was inexorably charmed with Feuilly. It was hardly surprising. Feuilly was, after all, the very embodiment of Enjolras' ideals. A self-made man, keenly interested in bettering himself and the people around him. Despite being deprived of opportunities early on, Feuilly had fought and made it anyway. Enjolras wanted that for everyone – though, granted, with significantly less struggle along the way.

 

She really was _Enjolras._ The new persona suited her so well that Combeferre had no doubts the right decision had been made. At home, she was still his wife, very much so. Their feelings for one another hadn't changed, though they disguised them as brotherly love when in public now. But Louise was gone, except in name. Combeferre still smiled and assured others she was fine when they asked about her. Enjolras, however, was the one he came home to, and he loved it. She certainly seemed much happier for it, which only cemented Combeferre's conviction that this was the right path. He hated that she couldn't be recognized for her contributions as a woman, that no one would accept her as a revolutionary leader unless they took her for a man. He didn't like keeping secrets from the new members of Les Amis. But such measures were a necessary evil, and seemed trite in comparison to the good they could do with Enjolras at the helm.

 

“I only hope the heat of August will coax crowds into the cafe in search of a drink,” Combeferre remarked with a smile as he moved to sit on the edge of the chaise longue, beside her. “Surely if they hear you speak, at least some will stay to listen further. They would be fools not to.”

 

She smiled, leaning over to kiss his cheek. “You do flatter me, love.” Though she had come to prefer menswear to dresses, for the comfort, she still loved her silk nightgowns and Combeferre could hardly blame her. They were soft against her skin – and his, when she curled against him. It was comfortingly familiar as their world continued to change.

 

“I only speak the truth.” Combeferre reached out to run his fingers through her hair, smiling wider as she caught his hand and pressed her cheek into his palm. “Hmm, shall I treasure these moments before you abandon me for our new friend Feuilly?”

 

Enjolras laughed, swatting at him playfully. “Don't be ridiculous. I admire him greatly, is all.” She re-situated herself so that she was straddling Combeferre's lap, facing him. “Besides, I highly doubt he would be interested in a marriage such as ours.”

 

Combeferre wrapped his arms around her back. “Oh, you mean where I send you out among the people dressed as a man?”

 

She wrinkled her nose at him, laughing. “As if you could command me to do anything against my wishes.”

 

“Well, of course I couldn't.” Nor would he want to. Enjolras' independent spirit was one of her most attractive features. “What did you mean, then?”

 

“I mean the nature of our...arrangement.” Enjolras shrugged. “What we have is ideal for us, but it _is_ common knowledge that most people come to expect a certain level of physical intimacy in a marriage.”

 

“Oh, that.” Combeferre shrugged as well. He never really thought it strange until it was pointed out to him, but they did have a different marriage than most, the cross-dressing notwithstanding. They had never consummated their marriage in the traditional sense, simply because neither had felt the need or particular desire to. The need to be physically close was there, but the longing for sexual contact was something neither of them had experienced. “I find this perfectly intimate.”

 

“As do I,” Enjolras agreed, nodding. “But, technically, if either of us ever wanted the marriage annulled, it would be considered a valid reason.”

 

“I'll keep that in mind,” Combeferre murmured dryly. He stroked Enjolras' cheek with the back of his hand. “What happens between us is our own business. If neither of us requires the so-called pleasures of the flesh to be happy, so be it.”

 

She grinned. “I never will forget the look on my mother's face when she tried to pry for details about our wedding night. Do you remember that?”

 

Combeferre laughed. “Do I ever.” Enjolras' mother had not been shy in her quest for details, however inappropriate. When Enjolras had told her the truth – that they had been reading each other passages from _Rights of Man_ – there was stunned silence. “If I recall, she eventually decided you were being cheeky in your efforts to maintain our privacy.”

 

Enjolras sniffed disdainfully. “She called _Rights of Man_ 'proletariat drivel.'”

 

Combeferre kissed her forehead, as if applying balm to the wound. “I somehow doubt she actually read it.”

 

“How was that woman ever married to my father?” Enjolras asked with a groan, dropping her head against Combeferre's chest.

 

Combeferre combed his fingers through her hair. “Likely the same way we were. Betrothed early on, for social and financial reasons.” He lifted her chin with a finger so their eyes could meet again. “It may be an unfortunate practice, but at least I have you.”

 

“So the ends justify the means, is that it?” Enjolras chuckled. “Terrible logic, that. But in this case...I'll allow it.” She leaned forward to kiss him gently.

 

Combeferre returned the kiss, smiling as they parted. “Your indulgence is appreciated.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, just as a FYI, pronouns are going to become kind of interesting from here on out. Enjolras still identifies as female, so those who know her as such will see her that way and the narrative will reflect that. Those who don't know will be using the masculine pronouns, because that's what they know. Hopefully it won't get too confusing. :)
> 
> Enjolras and Combeferre are both demisexual. <3 They've been married a little over a year at this point in the narrative.
> 
> Trivia: Enjolras' given first name - Louise - comes from Louise Michel, the lady revolutionary who nicknamed herself "Enjolras" after reading Les Miserables. Also, it just amuses me on many levels for Enjolras to have a name tied so closely to the French monarchy.


End file.
